


flames climb high into the night

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Fireworks, Jack is at the Bittle Household and I Am Fine, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4266315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The actual fireworks aren’t all that special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flames climb high into the night

**Author's Note:**

> today was a wild ride, basically all because of this [tweet](https://twitter.com/omgcheckplease/status/617058503950237696), which left me and so many of my pals in jack/bitty-related ruins. this fic, however, was all [jedusaur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur), who is always full of brilliant ideas. title is from don mclean's american pie.
> 
> thanks, as always, to ngozi.

Bittle is standing by the arrivals board when Jack sees him. He looks confused, but Jack’s never been here before, doesn’t know what Bittle is seeing as he looks up at the Hartsfield-Jackson board.

 

It takes Jack only being a few steps away from Bittle for Bittle to notice him, but when he does, his face breaks into a grin. “You made it,” Bittle says.

 

“Sure did,” Jack says, and he gets his arm around Bittle’s shoulder as Bittle turns to the door.  

 

“It’s about an hour drive,” Bittle says. “But my mom’s excited.”

 

“So am I,” Jack says.

 

He drops his arm from around Bittle’s shoulder when they get to the short-term parking. He adjusts his bag on his shoulder as Bittle hits the button on his car keys. Jack doesn’t know what he was expecting, but the truck wasn’t it. It makes sense--Jack thinks back to planning this weekend with Bittle, how Bittle had laughed. “Are you sure you want to come visit farm-country? It’s not exciting.” But it sounds exciting to Jack, fireworks and Independence Day, Bittle’s hilarious mother and Bittle’s childhood home--Bittle driving a pickup truck fits into all of it, once Jack spares the thought about it.

 

Jack tosses his bag into the bed of the truck, and Bittle smiles. Once Jack is buckled into the passenger seat, Bittle says, “you can pick the music,” and hands Jack a zippered CD holder. “How was your flight?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

Bittle’s mom wants a picture, which is probably the sweetest thing Jack has ever lived through. He takes his hat off, and smiles. He towers over her, and she puts her hand on his arm and Bittle takes a photo on his phone.

 

She steps away and says, “And how ‘bout some lunch? You must be hungry.”

 

“Oh, I, uh--” Jack stutters. “Sure, Mrs. Bittle. Lunch sounds great.”

 

“Dicky, take Jack’s bag upstairs, show him ‘round. Y’all’ve got ten minutes.”

 

Bittle picks up Jack’s bag and set out for the stairs on the right of the foyer. Jack follows after him quickly. “Don’t be dumb,” he says, wrapping his hand around the strap of his bag. “I can carry this.”

 

“You’re our guest,” Bittle says. “I have to show you southern hospitality or my mother will kill me.”

 

“She won’t know,” Jack says, ducking by Bittle on the stairs to block his way. “C’mon.”

 

Bittle rolls his eyes, “Oh my gosh, you loser. Here,” he says, dropping Jack’s bag.

 

“It’s strange calling your mom your name,” Jack says. “I guess I’ll have to call you Eric all weekend.”

 

“Do not,” Bittle says, laughing. “They don’t even call me that.” They reach the top of the stairs and Bittle says, “Washroom is the first door on the left. Parents’ room is down at the end. We’re on the right. Coach’s office is here.”

 

Bittle pushes his bedroom door open and gestures for Jack to go in first. “Sorry that we gotta share,” Bittle says. “Bed’s all yours, though.”

 

“No way, I’m not kicking you out of your own bed. The floor’s fine.” There’s a thermarest and a sleeping bag already set up, Jack has no doubts that it’ll be tolerable. “Worse comes to worse, I’ll bunk with you,” he says, and Bittle blushes.

 

“Sure,” Bittle says without inflection. “After we eat, you may want to change. We can go swimming if you want. There’s a fire pit in the back yard. There’s not much happening until tomorrow, but…”

 

“Why would I change?”

 

Bittle gives him a look that reminds him all too much of his own mother, and says, “You will drop dead from heat exhaustion if you think you can wear a dress shirt outside. People don’t even always wear shoes.”

 

“I--Okay, after lunch. I wanted to look nice for your parents. Is your dad here?”

 

“No idea,” Bittle says. “I’ll show you the yard.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

They eat lunch in the back yard.

 

There’s patio furniture, a fire pit. There’s a tire swing tied to a old tree by the fence. Bittle’s mom has a garden full of sunflowers. It’s everything that Jack imagines for Bittle: it’s domestic and cared for and warm.

 

Bittle’s dad comes out on the porch, and Jack stands to shake his hand. They introduce themselves, and it’s not the most tense Jack has felt in his life, but it’s not comfortable either.

 

“I’m gonna help with dinner, but it’s good to have y’here, son.”

 

Jack notices Bittle’s shoulders tense at that, and Jack steps back. “Thank you, sir. It’s nice to meet you.” He waits until Bittle’s dad turns back towards the house before turning back to Bittle. He’s still seated in the lawn chair at the table, and Jack puts his hand on his arm. “Sorry,” he says, soft, and then more steadily, “think we have time for a drive before dinner? Show me around?”

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

Bittle’s parents go to bed much earlier than they do. They end up driving for ice cream, which definitely isn’t in Jack’s meal plan, but he’s on vacation, and he had extra spinach salad at dinner. They sit in the bed of Bittle’s truck until the mosquitos are a distraction rather than an annoyance.

 

Bittle drives them back home, and Jack doesn’t know why he’s surprised at how steady of a driver Bittle is, but he catches himself thinking it. “You’re a good driver,” he says, and he turns in the passenger seat to face Bittle.

 

“Better than your old-man driving, that’s for sure,” Bittle says. Jack can see his smirk even though he can only see catch Bittle’s profile in the light of the street lights.

 

“It’s cool, being here. Thank you for inviting me.”

 

Bittle nods. “Thanks for coming.”

 

“Will you show me your baby photos?” Jack asks, trying to keep his voice soft, but Bittle huffs a laugh anyway.

 

“Absolutely not,” he says.

 

“I bet you were cute,” Jack says. “I was the ugliest baby.”

 

“I’ve seen the cup photo.”

 

Jack fakes being offended as Bittle pulls into the driveway.

 

Bittle turns off the porch light when they get inside, toes off his shoes and hangs up the car keys on a hook by the door. For all that Jack misses Samwell, this is what he thinks he misses the most: the simple and quiet domesticity of it all--Bittle with a flip-flop tan, Bittle humming while he brushes his teeth, Bittle in plaid pyjama pants but without a t-shirt.

 

Jack is laying on the floor on top of the makeshift bed in his boxers and t-shirt as Bittle turns off the hall light and then closes his bedroom door.

 

“Where’s your rabbit?” Jack asks.

 

“I-- oh. Uh--” Bittle scratches the back of his neck. “My mom thinks it’s embarrassing.”

 

“Where’d you hide him?”

 

Bittle is already sitting crossed legged on his bed, looking down at Jack. “Dresser,” Bittle says, and Jack rolls over. “Top drawer, right.”

 

Jack walks on his knees over to Bittle’s dresser and pulls open the top, right hand drawer. “Hola Señor,” Jack says, before turning to toss the stuffed rabbit to Bittle.

 

Bittle’s cheeks are pink, but he mumbles, “thanks,” before Jack crawls back to his sleeping bag.

 

“It’s not embarrassing to care about things,” Jack says, lying to look at Bittle’s ceiling. There are plastic stars all along part of the wall and above his bed, but they don’t really glow anymore. Jack can only see them because Bittle’s bedside lamp is still on; once it’s dark, he knows he won’t be able to make out their shape.

 

“It kind of is,” Bittle laughs. “But, like, it’s an embarrassed that everyone experiences. I know you don’t care. I know loads of weird stuff about you, too.”

 

“If you ever tell anyone in the media about th--”

 

Bittle starts laughing, and he flops onto his back. He’s mimicking Jack’s position, looking up at the ceiling, but he’s holding Señor Bunny to his chest. “Obviously I won’t,” he says, then yawns. He rolls onto his side. “Can I turn this off?”

 

Jack nods, and Bittle plugs in his phone before turning off the light. Jack can hear him shift on his bed before settling, and Jack turns on his side, can only just see Bittle’s profile from his spot on the floor. “Night, Bittle,” Jack whispers.

 

“G’night,” Bittle says, quiet, and cut off by a yawn.

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

Jack wakes up to Bittle’s fingers grazing his arm. His arm is hanging off the side of the bed, and Jack can’t help but be pleased about it. He rolls away from his reach, off his thermarest and onto the carpet. He hoists himself up, and stands as quietly as he can. He rifles through his duffel bag and finds a pair of basketball shorts. He pulls them on and then pulls on a dry-fit.

 

“Hey, Bittle,” Jack hisses. Bittle groans, then cracks open one eye.

 

“What?” He croaks, his eye falling shut again.

 

Jack smiles. “Let’s go for a run before it gets too hot.”

 

“It’s already too hot,” Bittle groans, but he rolls onto his back. He groans as he stretches, and Jack has to turn away to hide his blush.

 

“I’m brushing my teeth and getting us water, you’re changing. We’re going.”

 

“Ugh,” he groans again, but he sits up. “Okay, fine. I’m up. What time is it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jack says. “Maybe seven?”

 

“Jesus,” Bittle says.

 

“You’ve got two minutes,” Jack says, leaving him to get dressed.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

When they get back, Bittle’s parents are sitting on the porch with mugs of coffee. They jog up the driveway and Bittle says, “I’ll get us coffees and water. You want a clif bar?”

 

“Sure,” Jack says, slowing as Bittle takes the porch steps two at a time. He kisses his mom’s cheek as he passes, and Jack smiles. “Good morning,” he says. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he starts to tap his fingers on his thigh.

 

“Morning,” Bittle’s mom says.

 

Bittle’s dad nods at Jack, then says, “It’s good to see you’re so dedicated to your training.”

 

“Yes sir,” Jack says. “Helps to bring Eric along, he’s pushy, and faster than me.”

 

Bittle’s dad hums, and Jack doesn’t know what it means. “Happy Independence day,” Jack says.

 

“Thank you, honey,” Bittle’s mom says, smiling at him around her cup of coffee. “Dicky said y’all were gonna watch the fireworks, and we were invited to our friends’ place, so you’ll be on your own for dinner, if that’s okay. You were both invited too, but Dicky said y’all’d be okay?”

 

“He’s the boss,” Jack says.

 

Bittle comes back out onto the porch, balancing two cups of coffee and bottles of water under his arms. He has a half eaten clif bar in his mouth and another pinched between his fingers. Jack meets him halfway down the steps to take a coffee cup and then a bottle of water. He grabs the clif bar last, and Bittle smiles.

 

He finishes chewing then says, “thank you. Just milk in yours.”

 

“Thanks,” Jack says, taking a seat on the step.

 

Bittle’s mom catches his eye and winks at him, and he has to look at his feet to hide his blush.

 

When Bittle knocks his shoulder into Jack’s, his breath catches, but they just ran seven miles, he can blame it on that.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Bittle drives them to his high school; the parking lot is packed with cars, and Bittle has to pull up behind the gym building to find a spot. “People used to just park on the field, but it’s dry enough as it is, the tires always messed it up more than was worth it.”

 

“Must’ve been neat, though,” Jack says, helping Bittle carry out their stuff by grabbing the blankets from the back seat.

 

“It was,” he says. “Most people will be drinking, like, heavily.”

 

“But they drove,” Jack says, waving his empty hand at the crowd of cars.

 

“Uh, yeah, don’t know what to tell you, I went to school with assholes.”

“We’ll leave before it’s over, then. If you want.”

 

“Sure,” Bittle says. “Doesn’t matter. People stick around, usually.”

 

Bittle walks them through the crowd; some people have lawn chairs, blankets. There are lots of coolers, and Jack wonders how they get away with this much open alcohol in public.

 

Bittle waves at a few people, and a red-headed girl says, “Hey, Enrique! Find me later,” and Bittle nods.

 

“We could’ve hung out with your friends,” Jack says.

 

Bittle waves him off before stopping in his tracks. “This looks okay, right? I’d rather hang out with you, I’ve spent the last month with them.” He shrugs. “We don’t have much in common anymore.”

 

They lay out the larger of the two blankets they have, and Bittle pulls water bottles out of the small cooler they brought.

 

When Jack sits beside Bittle, it takes a few minutes to get comfortable. It’s not dark yet, won’t be for another half hour or so. Jack lays back and crosses his hands over his chest. Bittle is sitting cross legged beside him, and Bittle’s knee is pressed into Jack’s bicep.

 

“This is cool,” Jack says. “I know it’s not what you’d normally do, but thanks for doing it with me, anyway.”

 

“I mean, you got me out of a barbecue with my parents’ friends, so I think I’m the one who owes thanks.”

 

“Still,” Jack says. “Canada Day is different. There’s still fireworks and stuff but Americans have more pride.”

 

Jack can’t see, but he thinks he can hear Bittle roll his eyes.

 

Bittle moves, stretches out to lay beside Jack. After a few minutes of silence, Bittle says, “I’m happy you’re here.”

 

“Me too,” Jack says.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

The actual fireworks aren’t all that special. They’re loud and they’re bright, and Jack has seen it all before. Bittle is sitting up, a blanket around his shoulder, and Jack is leaning back on his elbows.

His right hand is behind Bittle, and he itches to reach out and touch him. He could slip his hand under the blanket and no one would know; could run his fingers along the hem of Bittle’s t-shirt, along the soft skin at the small of his back. The blue and red and white in the sky is nothing compared to the charge Jack feels in the space between Bittle’s leg and Jack’s side, separated by barely any space but still too much.

 

There’s a loud and long string of blue fireworks and Jack has to turn to look away from Bittle, who is watching contently. Once they stop, Bittle whispers, “if you don’t wanna stay, now’s the time to go. They do a, like, five minute intermission.”

 

“We can stay if you want,” Jack says, shrugging a bit.

 

Bittle puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder to push himself up, says, “let’s go, then.” He offers Jack his hand, and then they fold up the blankets quickly.

 

“‘S’cuse me, sorry,” Bittle says as they step around and through the crowd on their way back to the car.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

Jack can hear Bittle tossing and turning on the bed above him, and he rolls onto his side to try to make out Bittle’s shape. It’s too dark, and he can’t see him at all, really.

 

When they were at Samwell, Jack would catch Bittle napping all the time. He knows what he looks like in his sleep; knows that he likes to curl on his side, knees drawn up into his chest.

 

Jack can imagine his eyelashes fanned out over his freckled cheeks.

 

And maybe Jack is a coward, but he came all the way here for--

  
  


Jack startles a bit at the sound of the firework going off, but when the light flashes across Bittle’s bedroom window, he’s struck by Bittle looking down at Jack. When the light disappears, Jack’s pupils fight to readjust, and even though he can’t see, he can feel Bittle’s gaze.

 

“Are you awa--” Bittle whispers, and Jack shifts onto his knees and rests his elbows on the edge of Bittle’s bed.

 

“Yeah,” Jack whispers.

 

“I--” Bittle starts, and Jack leans forward to where he thinks Bittle’s mouth is.

 

He misses, presses his lips to the side of Bittle’s cheek, and Bittle laughs quietly.

 

“You missed,” Bittle whispers, and then Bittle is propping himself up, Jack can feel the bed shift under his movements. Bittle’s hand lands on Jack’s cheek. “Jack,” he says, and his voice is so soft, so quiet, that Jack wants to lock this moment away.

 

For all the turmoil Jack has felt over this, it turns out to be the simplest thing.

 

Jack’s hand covers Bittle’s on his cheek, and then it’s the easiest thing in the world to lean forward again, to run his nose along Bittle’s softly before kissing him properly.

 

Bittle runs his tongue along Jack’s lips, and Jack moans. “Get up here,” Bittle whispers, and Jack scampers to climb onto Bittle’s bed.

 

Jack lands haphazardly and half on top of Bittle, and Bittle fists Jack’s t-shirt before pulling him down to meet him. Jack presses his mouth to Bittle’s with so much force that it almost hurts, and when Bittle runs his tongue along Jack’s lip again, Jack groans. Bittle licks into Jack’s mouth, bites at Jack’s lips. When Jack pulls away to catch his breath, he says, “fucking finally.”

 

Bittle presses his hips up into Jack’s, and then flips Jack over with more force than Jack was expecting. Bittle kisses Jack quickly on the lips, then lifts his head again. “Be quiet,” he says, before kissing at Jack’s chin, his jaw, his neck. He mouths at Jack’s throat, and Jack has to bite his lip to keep quiet.

 

Bittle went to bed without a t-shirt on, and when he slides his knees to either side of Jack to sit over his hips, he tugs at Jack’s shirt. “Off,” he says, and Jack lifts his arms to help as Bittle pulls the shirt over Jack’s head.

 

Bittle grinds down onto Jack once, and Jack can feel how hard Bittle is against him. Then, he leans back to kiss at Jack’s neck again, down to his collarbone. Jack gets a hand in Bittle’s hair, his fingers curling into where it’s gotten long at his nape.

 

When Bittle licks at Jack’s left nipple as the same time he runs his fingers along the right, Jack moans.

 

Bittle stops, raises his head to look at Jack. Jack has to blink a few times to make out Bittle’s eyes, but then Bittle’s hand is covering Jack’s mouth. “I said be quiet,” he says. “Next time you can be as loud as you want, but not when my parents are across the hall.”

 

Jack nods, then licks at Bittle’s hand.

 

Bittle shifts lower, and kisses down Jack’s chest. He kisses at Jack’s stomach once before pausing. “This okay?” He whispers. Jack doesn’t say anything, just nods softly, and then licks at Bittle’s palm again when he tugs at the waistband of Jack’s boxers.  Jack scrambles, lifts his hips and reaches to push his boxers down his thighs. Bittle tugs them down past Jack’s knees one handed, his left hand still over Jack’s mouth, and then settles after Jack kicks them off the rest of the way.

 

When Bittle kisses at Jack’s hip, Jack’s inner thigh, he has to actually work to bite back a moan.

 

“Jack,” Bittle whispers into the skin where Jack’s hip meets his thigh. He lifts his hand from Jack’s mouth slowly, and Jack whines, a barely there sound that gives so much of him away. “Still good?”

 

Jack nods, remembers that Bittle can’t really see him in the dark of the room. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Please.”

 

Bittle wraps his right hand around the base of Jack’s cock at the same time he shoves his hand back towards Jack’s mouth, and when he licks a stripe up Jack, he shoves his fingers in Jack’s mouth.

 

Jack sucks on Bittle’s fingers, hard, and then groans around them when Bittle swirls his tongue around the head of Jack’s cock.

 

Jack’s gotten blowjobs before, good ones, even, but it’s been--it’s been a long time, and it matters to him, that this is good, that it goes well. It’s going to be fast, he knows, but that doesn’t mean it has to be bad.

 

He tries to mimic what Bittle is doing to Bittle’s fingers. When Bittle swirls his tongue and then sucks deep, Jack does the same around Bittle’s fingers. Bittle groans, and Jack feels it all through his body. When Bittle tightens his grip at the base of Jack’s cock, Jack’s toes curl. He tries to tug at Bittle’s hair in warning, but Bittle just takes Jack deeper in his mouth. When Jack comes, Bittle pushes his fingers deeper into Jack’s mouth, and Jack knows he’s groaning, but Bittle doesn’t seem to care, so he must not be loud. Bittle keeps his mouth around Jack until he’s oversensitive, and he pulls away. He runs his hands up and down Jack’s thighs while Jack catches his breath.

 

Jack whispers, “Holy shit,” before reaching for Bittle. He gets his hands on Bittle’s ribs and pulls him forward. Jack gets his hands under the waistband of Bittle’s pyjamas, pulls them down as far as he can with Bittle still over him. “Okay?”

 

“C’mon, Jack,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, and Jack gets his hand on Bittle as fast as he can. Jack wouldn’t normally try to do this dry, but Bittle’s already leaking precome. Jack stops to lick his palm once, then wraps his fingers around Bittle’s cock.

 

Bittle leans forward, rests on his hands above Jack. He balances all his weight on his right hand, and runs his fingertips along Jack’s jaw with his right. “God, do it,” Jack says. “C’mon,” and then Bittle is putting his fingers back into Jack’s mouth. Jack moans around them, his hand working between them, and Bittle’s hips stutter forward. Jack runs his thumb over Bittle’s slit before before sliding back down, then flicks his wrist on the upstroke.

 

It doesn’t take long, after that.

 

Bittle comes all over Jack’s chest before collapsing onto him. Jack strokes his hands through Bittle’s hair while he breathes. Bittle’s hands are framing Jack’s face loosely, his fingers gently running along Jack’s ears.

 

Jack turns his head to nudge at the side of Bittle’s face with his nose until Bittle turns to kiss him. It’s soft, sweeter than anything, and Jack’s heart swells. Jack manhandles Bittle off him, turns him so they’re facing each other but laying on their sides. He wipes off his chest off with Bittle’s sheet, and Bittle says, “Ew.”

 

Jack laughs softly. “This is your fault, I didn’t come all over you.”

 

“No, you came in my mouth,” Bittle says, but there’s no fight in it.

 

“Blame the fireworks,” Jack says, before settling again. He weaves their legs together, runs his fingers up Bittle’s side, earning him a shiver.

 

“Fuckin’ fireworks,” Bittle whispers, then yawns.

  
  
  


 

 

 


End file.
